


Ghost senses

by calime



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-15
Updated: 2005-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calime/pseuds/calime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams may be filled with sensory memories, and not all of them are pleasant. So it's good to have safe hands to catch you out of a dreamfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost senses

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  The result of the pumpkin challenge in the Highlander fandom and me tending towards being contemplative in the autumn.  
> Any recognizable characters aren't mine. Just playing. Not getting anything out of it except private enjoyment.  
> Pumpkins and assorted relatives mentioned, also some reference to m/m relationship.  
> I would like to thank [](http://dresta11.livejournal.com/profile)[**dresta11**](http://dresta11.livejournal.com/) for pointing out that even in a tortorously slow dreamfall you should not be able to smell the burning before pain (thats what I get for trying to shift my own nightmares on Methos*ggg*) and for gallantly suffering through my numerous questions. I promise to make it up for her *g*. Somehow.

It is warm in the semi-darkness of the loft. A lone candle flickers to outline a smooth golden cheek of a fat pumpkin and sharply defined elegant features of a face half-obscured in the shadows. Eyes blink sleepily, then close.

*A merciless mid-noon sun is beating down on the faded fabric of a tent. Inside, it is warm and faintly humid. He bites into the sweet cool flesh of a melon, feels the clear juice running down his chin and neck. His fingers are sticky. His brother grabs the hand and licks the fingers clean, one by one. He reaches out to return the gesture, loses himself in the taste of mixed sugar and salt on skin.*

*Wide fleshy green leaves seem cool and deceptively soft, but the surface is coarse when you stroke it with your finger. A little round pumpkin peeks out from under the leaves and lazy bees are buzzing around the bright yellow flowers in the afternoon sun. He turns his head to escape from a leaf tickling his nose and snuggles more comfortably into the warm body stretched out alongside him. The faint smell of rich damp soil tickles his nostrils. *

*There is thirst. He *is* the thirst, a parched, cracked husk that will crumble into dust at the first hint of a breeze. Then a cool wetness touches his lips. He licks his lips, swallows - oh, it hurts to swallow - and with enormous effort, opens his eyes. In the swirling dry haze a pair of dark almond eyes come to focus, then a fine-boned face, weathered hands holding a calabash from whence pours a life-saving clear stream. Unfamiliar words flow together into a comforting murmur .*

*The great fire is crackling, hot flames licking the darkness. Shadows move in and out of the light, frenziedly dancing in a circle to the incessant rythm of the gourd rattle. He does not feel his limbs any more, twisting, whirling, following the path that is burning behind his eyelids. He stumbles and feels strong hands catch him, support him, gently guide him back into the circle, not letting go until he is again moving to the compelling rythm shivering through his bones. Surely he is hovering, drifting, but then how can his feet feel so heavy, like a stone sunk deep into unyielding ground. He knows with horrible clarity that he cannot make another floating step, he is stuck, trapped - and then he is falling, falling, slowly falling into the great roaring fire…He can feel the scorching heat, should already feel the excruciating pain...*  
A whimper.  
Soft voice calling.  
'Methos! Methos, wake up! You're having a nightmare!'  
Familiar voice.  
Warm hands are catching him, stopping the fall, holding him.  
Familiar touch.  
He turns his head blindly, only half-awake, presses his face into familiar, slightly spicy smell of an aftershave with a slight undercurrent of male sweat. Safe.  
'Shhh. It's all right. It's me, here.'  
Soft breath drifting over his cheek - he seeks out with his mouth, tongue slipping out to taste the familiar flavour on whispering lips. Grounding. Yes. You. Here. Now.  
Not a nightmare. Just some ghosts come to visit, shades long dead conjured up from the graves.  
But the living are here. Familar. Safe. Now.


End file.
